


Just A Little Bit

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-04
Updated: 2005-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-29 02:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12072663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Rain, Joni Mitchell, Sex, love, thoughts and unsaid things.Men become boys again.





	Just A Little Bit

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Brian sits knee up, head leaning against the cool glass, smirking.  
‘Rain paints patterns on the heartless man’s beating chest while he smokes himself one cigarette closer to an early grave.’  
“Who says I’m not poetic?”  
“What?” Justin calls from the kitchen where dinner is slowly being created. The rain has a way of muting city life and yet making normal conversation almost inaudible in the hollow, tin can loft. Brian doesn’t respond and from the counter Justin can only just make out a bare chest hidden by, of all things, a smoke screen. “You should quit.” But Justin says this only because he can, because right now Brian can’t hear him.   
Stirring vegetables in a pan that isn’t quite his, listening to haunting melodies on a cd player that isn’t his, in a loft that isn’t, in any way, in his name makes Justin reconsider his notions of love. ‘There is,” he lectures the salt and pepper, “a Suzie HomeMaker kind of love. But,” He gestures with his spoon, “It is not the **only** kind of love. There is,” He dishes portions on to dishes that he didn’t buy, “a wholly different, but also satisfying. . . kind of love.” He pauses for a moment and brings dinner to the table. “BRIAN.” A rustle in the depth of the loft lets him know that Brian has heard, will come, but has no intention of acknowledging his young lovers call. “Love,” Justin continues, talking to the fridge, “comes in all shapes, all sizes,” He looks meaningfully at a stunted cucumber left on the counter, “ **all** sizes. And it takes maturity to realize it.”  
If someone, say the fridge, could see, but maybe not hear, they would think a variety of things. First, that Justin was a crackpot for talking to the kitchen, but second, that what they were seeing was most certainly a ‘Suzie HomeMaker kind of love.’ What the fridge didn’t know, of course, was that Brian didn’t do love.   
But what neither the fridge, nor Justin, nor anyone but Brian knew, was what happened inside Brian’s head.   
What no one could know was that when Brian fucked Justin it was the best fuck he’d ever had, and when Justin ‘wore him out’ it was an emotional wearing down more than anything physical.  
What no one could know was that when Justin was gone, in LA or at Daphne’s or at his mother’s Brian had nightmares. Nothing he would ever tell anyone about, not even in jest. But nightmares of the bed always being cold, nightmares of suns that didn’t shine, and blonde’s that weren’t quite _that_ blonde.   
What no one could **ever** know is that at night, at the dead of night, Brian watches Justin sleep and the only word he can think is love, love, love. Not that he does love, of course.  
But what every one keeps noticing is that despite every speech, despite every memorable line, besides every trick, Justin is **still** here. Still cooking dinner, still curling his body around Brian’s, still being melodramatic, still there. Existing in Brian’s world, next to Brian, **with** Brian, proclamations aside, he is the one who never left, he’s the stubborn shit that stuck around when the going got tough.  
And in the bedroom, Brian’s favorite place, he thinks that lately the going has been very, _very_ tough. In sickness and in health, though the old marriage tome is bitter on his tongue, Justin **was** there, in sickness and in health, in good times and certainly in bad.  
And hadn’t he been there for Justin?  
Without really meaning to, hadn’t he been there too?  
In sickness, certainly a bashing wasn’t considered healthy.  
In bad times, the divorce, New York, LA, all the bright light cities that let the little star down.  
In health, pre-bashing and post-recovery.  
In good times, and hadn’t they had good times? Times that no one talked about, he least of all. Times when they wrestled on expensive Italian furniture over the remote. Times when they would draw each other in bad light and Justin would say with a straight face that Brian was, in fact, the new Picasso when in the final product Justin’s beautiful eyes were somewhere near is receded hair line. Times when the Thai food got cold while Brian thrusted in and out of the blonde, dishes crashing to the floor and dinner settings ruined while the two made love again, and again. Times when unexpectedly Brian had a respite from work and the two would lay lazy in bed, waking up slow with languid kisses and playful banter.   
Yeah, they had had good times.  
“We’ve had good times!” Brian calls as he slips a white wifebeater over his slightly bronzed chest.  
“What?”  
And then they are near enough to hear and both men stop talking.  
The food sits cooling in front of them, rain beats to get in while keeping the world out.  
Brian looks across **his** table and locks eyes with a younger man. **His** younger man. Now would be perfect, he thinks.  
‘Justin. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to stop chasing club boys and fucking tricks. I want you. You. All of you. The overly dramatic, hopelessly romantic, beautiful you. The you that folds in half when I fuck you, the you that kisses my neck when you think I’m not paying attention, the you that traces my face when you think I’m asleep. All of you. Ok?.’  
“How do you like it?”  
Brian laughs and thinks his thoughts silently.  
“If you only knew.”   
And Justin looks down at his chicken, at his yellow and red peppers, at **his** dinner, because if anything is his in this loft it’s the food, and he thinks that maybe he does know.  
Just a little bit. 

Both men, and right now they are men, thinking men thoughts, chew and watch the other chew, and think (as thinking men do) about everything that is **not** being said.  
Justin, for once, is out of words. He’s said it all, and countless times. ‘I love you. Love me. Hold me. Kiss me. Touch me.’   
Brian thinks hard, in Justin’s direction, ‘I love you, please know, please know, please know.’ And if it wasn’t raining, if Joni Mitchell wasn’t singing  
 _“I am on a lonely road and I am traveling_  
Looking for something, what can it be  
Oh I hate you some, I hate you some  
I love you some  
Oh I love you when I forget about me”  
Brian might have been able to convince himself that Justin **did** know.

Later Justin brushes his teeth and Brian presses against his back. Nothing sexual, just full body contact. Brian smiles at the mirror and kisses Justin’s hair.   
“I love you.”  
Brian breaks eye contact, like he always does, because every time he doesn’t respond he fails Justin.  
Just a little bit.  
“It’s still raining.” As if talking about the weather isn’t the most cliché thing in the world. Justin watches Brian change in the reflection.  
“Yeah. You scared?” Brian smirks and waits.  
“Maybe.”  
“Well,” Brian wraps his arms around Justin holding the boy, and they are boys now, speaking about boy fears “nothing to fear, Rage is here.” He starts to laugh.  
“Is he?”  
Justin pulls away and heads to bed.   
Brian hypothesizes that Justin has about the most beautiful retreat of anyone he’s ever met.  
They fuck, don’t they always?  
And in the heat of it, when Brian is buried deep inside of him Justin almost feels him. . . almost feels the connection.  
Just a little bit.

After they lie side by side shoulder’s barely touching.  
“No.”  
“What?”  
“Rage isn’t here.”  
Justin laughs now. “I know. Is he ever?”  
“I am.”  
“What?”  
“I’m here.”   
And instead of waiting for a response, waiting for Justin to say “Oh Brian,” and roll into his arms. Brian does something that the fridge can’t see, something no one else can see, no one else will ever see. Brian puts his head on Justin’s chest and for the first time lets himself be held.  
Let’s Justin love him.  
Just a little bit.


End file.
